The Great Secret

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"Germany is infinitely more powerful," she objected. "If she mobilized an
army on the frontier, and France found half her soldiers disaffected--"

"You forget," I interposed, "that there would be England to be reckoned
with. England is bound to help France in the event of a German invasion."

She smiled confidently.

"I don't fancy," she remarked, "that England could help much."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Perhaps not," I admitted; "yet I do not believe that German intervention
will ever win for Mr. de Valentin the throne of France."

She changed the subject abruptly.

"Apart from this, let me ask you something else, Mr. Courage. Supposing
the plot should succeed. How do you think it will be with us at the
French Court? You know more about these things than we do. Shall we be
accepted as the original holders of these titles would have been? Do you
think that we shall have trouble with the French aristocrats?"

"I am afraid, Mrs. Van Reinberg," I answered, "that I am scarcely
competent to answer such questions. Still, you must remember that your
country-people have secured a firm footing in France, and it will be the
King himself who will be your sponsor."

She raised her head. Her self-confidence seemed suddenly to have become
re-established.

"You are right, Mr. Courage," she said. "It was absurd of me to have any
doubts at all. And now let me ask you--if I may--a more personal
question."

"By all means," I answered.

"What have you and Adele been quarrelling about?"

I looked at her in some astonishment.

"I can assure you," I said, "that there has been nothing in the nature of
a quarrel between Miss Van Hoyt and myself."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Then why," she asked, "has Adele gone away at a moment's notice?"

"Gone away!" I repeated incredulously.

"Is it really possible that you did not know?" Mrs. Van Reinberg asked.
"She left just as we went in to the meeting. Mr. Stern's automobile is
taking her to the depot."

"I had not the slightest idea of it," I declared. "Do you mean that she
is not coming back?"

"Not at present, at any rate," Mrs. Van Reinberg declared. "You mean to
tell me, Mr. Courage, that you have not quarrelled, and you did not know
that she was going?"

"I had no idea of it," I said, "and I am quite certain that we have not
quarrelled."

Mrs. Van Reinberg looked as though she found my statement hard to
believe.

"You had better go to your room," she suggested, "and see if there is not
a note for you! She must have a reason for going. She would tell me
nothing; but I took it for granted that you were connected with it."

"Not to my knowledge," I assured her. "If you will excuse me, I will go
and see if she has left any message."

I hurried up to my room. There was a note upon my dressing-table. I tore
it hastily open. A few lines only, hastily scribbled in pencil:--

"DEAR!

"Everything is changed since the news I told you of this evening. We must
separate at once, and keep apart. Remember you have only five days. If
you remain in America longer than that, your life is not safe.

"For my sake, go home! For my sake, also, burn this directly you have
read it."

CHAPTER XXVIII

DOUBLE DEALING

"What sort of a place is this, anyhow, Guest?" I asked him, looking round
me with some curiosity. We were a long way from Fifth Avenue, and what I
had always understood to be the centre of New York; but the bar in which
we sat was quite equal to anything I had seen at the Waldorf-Astoria. The
walls were panelled with dark oak, and hung with oil paintings. The bar
itself was of polished walnut wood. All the appurtenances of the place,
from the white linen clothes of the two servitors to the glass and silver
upon the polished counter, were spotless and immaculate. In addition to
the inevitable high stools, there were several little compartments
screened off, after the fashion of the old-fashioned English coffee-room
of the seventeenth century, and furnished with easy-chairs and lounges of
the most luxurious description. In one of these we were now sitting.

"Better not ask me that," Guest answered dryly. "There are some places in
New York of strange reputation, and this is one of them. Now go ahead!"

I told him everything. He was a good listener. He asked no questions, he
understood everything. When I had finished, he smoked a cigarette through
before he said a word. Then he stood up and gave me my hat.

"Come," he said, "we have a busy morning before us, and we must catch the
German steamer for Hamburg this afternoon."

"Back to Europe?" I asked, as we left the place.

"Yes!"

"But won't that rather give us away?" I asked. "I came to go out West,
you know."

"We must try and arrange that," Guest answered. "I'll explain as we go
along."

We climbed an iron staircase, which came down to the pavement within a
few yards of the bar, and took the elevated railway up town. We descended
at 47th Street and, after a short walk, entered a tall building, from the
hall of which several lifts were running. We took one of them and stopped
at the eleventh floor. Exactly opposite to us was a door, on the frosted
glass of which was painted in black letters:

"PHILIP H. MAGG,
AGENT"

We opened the door and entered. A middle-aged man, dark and with Jewish
features, was sitting writing at a desk. There was no one else in the
room, which was quite a small one. He glanced at us both carelessly
enough, and leaned back in his chair.

"Good morning, Mr. Magg!" Guest said.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Mr. Magg answered.

"You do not by chance remember me, I suppose?" Guest said.

A faint smile parted the lips of the gentleman in the chair. He rather
avoided looking at us, but seemed to be glancing through the letter which
he had just been writing.

"I never forget a face--and I never remember one--unnecessarily," he
answered. "It is the A B C of my profession. To-day I believe that it is
Mr. Guest, and his friend Mr. Courage, whom I have the pleasure of
greeting."

For once Guest's face lost its immovability of expression. Even his tone
betrayed his admiration.

"Wonderful as ever, my dear sir!" he exclaimed.

"Not in the least," Mr. Magg replied. "I know of your presence here very
simply. Yesterday I cabled my refusal to accept a commission on the other
side."

"They sent to you?" Guest exclaimed in a low tone.

Mr. Magg nodded.

"A very unimportant affair," he answered. "Just a record of your
movements, and to keep you shadowed until the French steamer is in next
week. Unfortunately they forgot one of my unvarying rules--never to
accept a commission against a quondam client."

"You are a great man, Magg!" my companion exclaimed.

"I guess not," the other answered simply. "What do you want with me?"

"Look at my friend," Guest said.

Mr. Magg looked at me, and though his inspection was brief enough, I felt
that, for the rest of my life, I was a person known to Mr. Magg.

"Well?"

"He is going to Europe with me this afternoon--and he is also going West,
a long way west, to shoot anything he can find on four legs."

Mr. Magg nodded.

"He has to be duplicated then!" he remarked.

"Precisely," Guest assented.

"I understand," Mr. Magg said. "Which Mr. Courage am I to provide?"

"The one who stays," Guest answered.

"It can be done, of course," Mr. Magg said. "Pardon me one instant."

He stooped down and fished up a kodak.

"A little more in the light, if you please, Mr. Courage. Thank you! That
will do! Now side-face."

I was snap-shotted twice before I knew where I was. Then Mr. Magg drew a
sheet of paper towards him, and began to make notes.

"You are staying?" he asked.

"Waldorf-Astoria," I answered.

"You will be prepared to leave practically the whole of your effects
there, and take your chance of ever seeing them again."

"Certainly," I answered.

Mr. Magg nodded and turned towards my companion.

"The other parties," he remarked, "do not stick at trifles. What do they
want from Mr. Courage?"

Guest was serious.

"Well," he said, "they probably give him credit for knowing more than is
good for him."

Mr. Magg was thoughtful for a moment.

"It will cost you five thousand dollars," he said, "and another five for
life insurance."

"Agreed!" Guest declared.

Mr. Magg made another note upon the sheet of paper in front of him. Then
he turned to me.

"You must bring me," he said, "before you leave, the key of your room,
the clothes you are now wearing, the keys of your trunks, and any
information you deem it necessary for your successor to have. The French
boat is due here on Wednesday. On Tuesday, Mr. Courage shall leave the
Waldorf for the Rockies. You will excuse me now! I have another
appointment."

We were out in the street again in a few moments. I was feeling a little
bewildered.

"These things," I said, "are arranged pretty quickly over here."

Guest nodded.

"Mr. Magg," he said, "is known as well in Europe as in New York. There is
no one else like him. He has been offered retainers from the Secret
Service of every country in Europe, but he prefers to work on his own. He
has over a hundred assistants, and yet you never meet a soul in his
office...."

When we returned there in a couple of hours' time, I thought, for a
moment, that I was looking into a mirror.

A man of my own height, complexion and general appearance was standing by
the side of Magg's desk. The latter looked backwards and forwards rapidly
from me to my double.

"Very fair," he remarked. "Eyebrows a little deeper, and you must note
the walk, George. Now please step into the next room and change clothes
with this gentleman, Mr. Courage."

I did as I was told. The next room I found was a most delightfully
furnished sitting-room, with a chair-bedstead in the corner, and a
dressing-room and bathroom opening out from it.

"You don't wear an eyeglass, Mr. Courage?" my companion asked.

I shook my head.

"No glasses of any sort."

"You have no peculiarity of speech? I have noticed your walk. I suppose
you are right-handed? Have you any friends over here whom I should be
likely to come across?"

"I should think it very improbable," I answered. "I have made out a list
of all the people I have met in America, and the house in Lenox where I
have been staying."

My companion nodded.

"At the Waldorf," he said, "your room, I understand, is 584? You haven't
made any friends there?"

"I have scarcely spoken to a soul," I answered.

"And you have made no arrangements out West?"

"None whatever," I answered.

"It seems easy enough," he declared. "Go on talking, if you don't mind.
Your voice needs a little study."

When we reappeared in the outer room, Mr. Magg eyed us for a moment
sharply, and then nodded.

"Good-day, gentlemen!" he said. "Pleasant voyage!"

We found ourselves outside with exactly an hour to catch the boat.

"I must buy some things for the steamer," I declared.

"I have everything that you will want," Guest declared. "I have sent my
luggage down to the boat myself. No need for a man who doesn't exist, you
see, to take any special precautions. Besides, we are quite four miles
away from the docks."

We drove down to the steamer.

"Where are our state-rooms?" I asked.

Guest smiled.

"I haven't engaged any yet," he answered. "Don't look so startled. I can
arrange it directly we're off. I expect the sailing lists will be looked
through pretty carefully."

On the stroke of the hour the captain's whistle sounded, and the gangways
were drawn up. The engines began to throb, in a few minutes we were on
our way down the harbor. I stayed on deck, watching the wonderful stream
of shipping and the great statue of Liberty until dusk. Soon the lights
began to flash out all around us, and our pace increased. America lay
behind us, and with it all the wonderful tissue of strange happenings and
emotions, which made my few days there seem like a grotesque dream.

CHAPTER XXIX

I CHANGE MY NATIONALITY

Guest had never lost his sense of humor. As we left the agent's office
and walked down Wellington Street into the Strand, he studied for a few
moments my personal appearance, and began to laugh softly.

"My friend," he said, "you are wonderful! After all, beauty is but skin
deep! Hardross Courage, if I remember rightly, was rather a good-looking
fellow. Who would have believed that ready-made clothes from Hamburg,
glasses and a beard could work such a change?"

I looked down a little disconsolately at my baggy trousers and thick
clumsy boots.

"It's all very well," I replied; "but you're not exactly a distinguished
looking object yourself!"

Guest smiled.

"I admit it," he answered; "but you must remember that for ten years,
since I was kicked out of the diplomatic service in fact, I have studied
the art of disguising myself. You, on the contrary, when I first had the
pleasure of meeting you, were a somewhat obvious person. Who would have
thought that a fortnight on a German steamer and six weeks in Hamburg
would have turned you out such a finished article?"

"It's these d----d clothes," I answered a little irritably.

"They are helpful, certainly," Guest admitted. "Come, let us go and have
luncheon _chez nous_."

We turned northwards again towards Soho, and entered presently a small
restaurant of foreign appearance. The outside, which had once been
painted white, was now more than a little dingy. Greyish-colored muslin
blinds were stretched across the front windows. Within, the smell of
cooking was all-pervading. A short dark man, with black moustache and
urbane smile, greeted us at the door, and led us to a table.

"Very good luncheon to-day, sirs," he declared in German. "Hans, _hors
d'oeuvres_ to the gentlemen."

We seated ourselves, arranged our napkins as Teutons, and ordered beer.
Then Guest assumed a mysterious manner.

"Business good, eh?" he inquired.

"Always good," the head-waiter declared. "We have our regular customers.
Always they come!"

Guest nodded two or three times.

"Heard anything about your new proprietor?" he asked.

"Not yet," the man answered. "The nephew of Mr. Muller, who died, lives
in Switzerland. A friend of mine has gone over to see him. He will buy
the good-will--all the place. It will go on as before."

Guest smiled meaningly at me, a smile which was meant to puzzle the
waiter.

"But," he said, "supposing some one should step in before your friend?
Supposing Mr. Muller's nephew should have put this place into the hands
of an agent in London, and he should have sold it to some one else! Eh?"

For the first time, the man showed signs of genuine uneasiness. His smile
suddenly disappeared. He looked at us anxiously.

"Mr. Muller's nephew would not do that," he declared. "It was always
promised to my friend, if anything should happen to Mr. Muller."

Guest smiled cheerfully.

"Ah!" he said, "it is unfortunate for your friend, but he will be too
late!"

"Too late!" the man exclaimed.

"Too late!" Guest declared. "I will tell you some news. I have taken over
the lease of this restaurant! I have bought the good-will and effects. I
have the papers in my pocket."

The man was struggling with a more than ordinary discomposure.

"You make a joke, sir!" he exclaimed. "The place does not pay well. It is
a poor investment. No one would be in such a hurry to take it."

Guest was much concerned.

"A poor investment!" he exclaimed. "We shall see. I have been in America
for many years, my nephew and I here, and I have made a little money. I
have bought the place and it must pay!"

The expression on the man's face was indescribable. He seemed stricken
dumb, as though by some unforeseen calamity. With a half-muttered
apology, he left us, and a few moments later we saw him leave the place.
Guest looked at me meaningly.

"We are right then," he murmured. "I felt sure that I could not be
mistaken. This is the place they have made their headquarters. That
fellow has gone out to fetch somebody. Soon we shall have some
amusement."

In less than five minutes the waiter returned, and there followed him
through the swing doors a man to whom he turned and pointed us out. This
newcomer was of almost aggressively foreign appearance. He wore dark
clothes, a soft slouch hat; his black moustaches were waxed and upturned.
His complexion was very sallow, and he was in a perspiration, as though
with hurrying. He came straight up to us, and bowed politely.

"Is it permitted," he asked in German, "that I seat myself at your table?
There is a little conversation which I should much like to have with
you!"

Both Guest and myself rose and returned his bow, and Guest pointed to a
seat.

"With much pleasure, sir," he answered. "My name is Mayer, and this is my
nephew Schmidt. We have just returned from America."

More bows. The newcomer was exceedingly polite.

"My name," he announced, "is Kauffman. I am resident in London."

"My nephew," Guest continued, "has lived in America since he was a boy,
and he speaks more readily English!"

Mr. Kauffman nodded.

"To me," he replied in English, "it is of no consequence. I speak English
most. I presume, from what Karl there has told me, that it is your
intention to go into the restaurant business in this country."

"Exactly," Guest answered. "I have a little money, and my nephew there
knows something of the business. The head-waiter told you, perhaps, that
I have taken this place."

"He did," Mr. Kauffman answered. "It is for that reason that I hurried
here. I want to give you good advice. I want you not to lose your money."

"Lose my money," Guest repeated anxiously. "No! no! I shall take good
care of that. If the books spoke the truth, one does not lose money here!
No! indeed. I want to make a little, and then put in my nephew as
manager. Myself I should like to go home in a year or two."

Mr. Kauffman leaned across the table. He spread out his hands, with their
tobacco-stained fingers. He was very much in earnest, and he wished us to
realize it.

"Mr. Mayer, you will have no money to take back from this place," he
declared slowly and emphatically. "On the contrary, you will lose what
you have put in. What you saw in the books is all very well, but it
proves nothing. Amongst a certain community this place has become a
meeting-house. It was to see and talk with old Muller that they came. A
social club used to meet here--there is a room out behind, as you know.
If a stranger comes here, it will be broken up, his friends will all eat
and drink elsewhere!"

"But the good-will," Guest declared, "I bought it! I have the receipt
here! I have paid good money for it."

Mr. Kauffman struck the table with his open hand.

"Not worth the paper it is written on, sir!" he exclaimed. "You cannot
force the old customers to come. A stranger will lose them all!"

"But what am I to do?" Guest asked uneasily. "If what you say is true, I
am a ruined man."

"I will swear by the Kaiser that it is true," Mr. Kauffman declared.
"Now, listen. I will tell you a way not to lose your money. I myself had
meant to take over this place. It would have been mine before now, but I
never dreamed that any one else would step in. I know all the customers,
they are all my friends. I will take it over from you at what you paid
for it. No! I will be generous. I will give you a small profit to make up
for the time you have wasted."

Guest's expression changed. He beamed on the other and adopted a knowing
air.

"Aha!" he said, "I begin to understand. It is a matter of business this.
So you were thinking of taking this restaurant, eh?"

Kauffman nodded.

"For me it would be a different affair altogether," he said hastily. "I
have explained that."

Guest still smiled.

"I think, Mr. Kauffman," he said, "that I have made a good bargain. I am
very much obliged to you, but I think that I shall stick to it!"

Mr. Kauffman was silent for several moments. The expression upon his face
was not amiable.

"I understand," he said at last. "You do not believe me. Yet every word
that I have spoken to you is truth. If a stranger becomes proprietor of
this restaurant, its business will be ruined."

"No! no!" Guest protested. "They will come once to see, and they will
remain. The chef, the waiters, I keep them all. There will be no
alterations. The social club of which you spoke--they can have their
room! I am not inquisitive. I shall never interfere."

"Mr. Mayer," Kauffman said, "I will give you fifty pounds for your
bargain!"

Guest shook his head.

"I shall not sell" he answered. "I want my nephew to learn the business,
and I want to go home myself soon. I have no time to look out for
another."

"One hundred!"

"I shall not sell," Guest repeated obstinately. "I am sorry if you are
disappointed."

Mr. Kauffman rose slowly to his feet.

"You will be sorry before very long that you refused my offer," he
remarked.

Guest shook his head.

"No!" he said, "I think not. The people will come where they can eat well
and eat cheaply. They shall do both here."

Kauffman remained for a few more minutes at our table, but he did not
return to the subject. After he had left us with a somewhat stiff bow, he
went and talked earnestly with Karl, the little head-waiter. Then he
slowly returned.

"Mr. Mayer," he said, "I'm going to make you a very rash offer. I will
give you L200 profit on your bargain."

"I am not inclined to sell," Guest said. "One hundred, or two hundred, or
five hundred won't tempt me now that my mind is made up."

Kauffman left the restaurant without a word. Guest called the waiter to
him.

"Karl," he said, "do you wish to stay here as head-waiter?"

"Certainly, sir," the man answered, a little nervously. "I know most of
the customers. But I fear they will not stay."

"We shall see," Guest answered. "I am not in a great hurry to make money.
I want them to be satisfied, and I want my nephew to be learning the
business. You shall do what you can to keep them, Karl, and it will mean
money to you. Now about this club! They spend money these members, eh?"

"Not much," Karl answered dubiously.

"That is bad," Guest declared; "but they must spend more. We will give
them good things cheap. What nights do they meet?"

"No one knows," Karl answered. "The room is always ready. They pay a
small sum for it, and they come when they choose."

"H'm!" Guest remarked. "Doesn't sound very profitable. What do they
do--sing, talk, or is it business?"

"I think," Karl answered slowly, "that it is business."

"Well, well!" Guest said, "we are not inquisitive--my nephew and I. Can
one see the room?"

Karl shook his head.

"Not at present," he answered. "Mr. Kauffman has a key, but he is gone."

"Ah, well!" Guest remarked, "another time. The bill, Karl! For this
morning I shall call myself a guest. This afternoon we will take
possession--my nephew and I!"

CHAPTER XXX

THE "WAITERS' UNION"

Guest and I had taken small rooms not a hundred yards from the Cafe
Suisse, as the restaurant was called. We made our way there immediately
after we had settled with our friend Karl, and Guest locked the door of
our tiny sitting-room behind us. He first of all walked round the room
and felt the wall carefully. Then he seated himself in front of the table
and motioned me to draw my chair up almost to his side.

"My young friend," he said, "we have now reached the most difficult part
of our enterprise. For several days we have not spoken together
confidentially. I have not even told you the little I was able to
discover in Hamburg. Shall I go on?"

"Of course," I answered.

"Take off your gloves," Guest said. "You cannot wear them in the
restaurant. Good! Now, first of all, have you seen the morning papers?"

"No!" I answered.

He produced one from his pocket, and, placing it before me, pointed to a
paragraph.

"Read," he said, "your obituary notice."

This is what I read:

"TRAGIC DEATH OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN IN THE ROCKIES

"Yesterday, whilst Mr. Charles Urnans and a party of friends from New
York were returning to their camp near Mount Phoenix, they came across
the body of a man in a deserted gorge half-way down the mountain. He had
apparently been shot through the heart by a rifle bullet, and must have
been dead for some weeks. From papers and other belongings found in his
possesion, the deceased gentleman appears to have been a Mr. Hardross
Courage of England."

_LATER_

"The body found this morning by Mr. Charles Urnans of New York has been
identified as that of Mr. Hardross Courage, the famous English cricketer
and well-known sportsman. Mr. Courage is known to have left New York some
months ago, for a hunting trip in the Rockies, and nothing has been heard
of him for some time. No trace has been discovered of his guides,
although his camp and outfit were found close at hand. As no money or
valuables were discovered on the body of the deceased, it is feared that
he has met with foul play."

I think that no man can read his own obituary notice without a shiver.
For a moment I lost my nerve. I cursed the moment when I had met Guest, I
felt an intense, sick hatred of my present occupation and everything
connected with it. I felt myself guilty of this man's death. Guest
listened to my incoherent words gravely. When I had finished he laid his
hand upon nine.

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